Beneath the Heap
by Mana7
Summary: Together didn't work, but neither does apart. Final Chapter
1. Starvation

Disclaimer: Of course I don't own them!

Summary: A reunion scene I wrote with Carby vaguely in mind, although I don't use names. I guess it could be loosely set after Kisangani, but if you're a real fact-checker or haven't seen the finale yet, just think of it as an AU, cause not everything's accurate.

Rating: PG-13 for language

Hope you like!

*******

She lay curled up beneath some haphazardly yanked blankets. All she was aware of was garlic—her stale meal, hours, maybe days, ago. Empty—void of food, emotion, coherent thought—she was a brittle old Wiffle Ball: breakable to the touch, old, battered.

An hour ago she'd had delusions of a tap on her shoulder, maybe him, back to rescue her. More likely a concerned friend. Bothersome, but at least a release. No tap came. She was not worth saving.

Later she awoke. Shaking—cold? She pulled the corner of another worn sheet across her trembling mass. The frigid air was not extreme enough to have woken her.

"Thump," the sleep-disturbing culprit was revealed from the alley below. "Thump!" Mildly questionable, but not worth questioning.

"Get your fucking trash out of my dumpster, you fucking mooch!" On a better day she would have smiled, laughed even, at the use of such a sissy word with fuck. Today she hardly uttered a small grunting moan before twisting slightly, pressing one ear deep into a pillow, capping a fist over the other. God damn those stupid neighbors. Didn't they have anything more important to fight about? Lucky bastards.

Fucking bastards.

Cringing, she moaned again. Her hindered ears couldn't perceive the small eerie echo in the empty apartment. Her brain was like her ears—forced to cease function. Her chest lay still, inexplicably pain-free. She didn't fucking want the relief. She wanted the pain.

"Fuck" gave her a minute pinprick. Rage. Not nearly as satisfying as any other emotion, far too shallow. She yelled it. Again. Shrieked. Tears dripped from the effort, from the sheer trapped anger she harbored. Not good enough. 

She tried to convert the tears, tried to imagine her real feelings. Instead, convulsed with rage. Exhausted, she crashed back to the stack of blankets on the hard couch. Lay still, inhaling, exhaling, caught her breath. The remaining tears squeezed out the edge crevices of her eyes, down her cheekbones. 

Cold again, she reached down for another corner of a coverlet to double over her body. Instead, a brand new quilt appeared.

"Shh."

A hallucination, probably. Fatigued, starving, it was likely. She rode her mind's servant to the fullest, letting the voice owner's hand gently stroke her shoulder until once again sleep arrived.

The next time she awoke, there were no annoying neighbors, no apparent cause for the arousal. She poked an eye from beneath the heap to search for the root of the disturbance. Nothing obvious, but her eye did catch a triangular half of a sandwich on the end table by her head. Absolutely a mirage.

Her hand chased after her eye. Like the tortoise slow, but not so steady. Half expecting air, the digits sighed at the greasy warmth of the food. She picked it up, not interested in eating, just wanted something new. Her human curiosity overriding her self-induced indifference, she nibbled at the corner. 

One bite made the whole sandwich seem infinitely more enticing. Orange cheese oozing between lightly toasted slices of bread, shiny with oil from the pan—resistance was impossible. Her dormant appetite erupted into rumbles in her abdomen. Two more bites and the sandwich had vanished.

Licking the remaining grease off her fingers, she sat up. No sandwich maker was evident.

"Thank you?" she called out tentatively from the bed into the pale green room. No answer. She scanned past the table to the kitchen—no sandwich makings on the counter. The dull black countertops were bare. Down the dark hall. No movement. Nothing anywhere. Eyes darted, searching for explanation—a note? Came to rest on the doorway. A man stood leaning on the frame. No blatant emotion on his face, but he was definitely not emotionless.

Of course. Who else knew grilled cheese was her favorite? She had not dared speculate. Too much wishful thinking breaks hearts. Not that her heart had been in any state to be broken. Or in any state at all. 

Reminded of her heart, she was suddenly painfully aware of the first real feeling she'd had in…weeks? Not slowly crawling, emerging from a shell. Instead, a tidal wave, the first million troops on the ground at once, a surprise attack.

Had she been standing, the sheer force would have knocked her over. Sitting, luckily, on the worn sofa, she stifled a gasp. Tried to concentrate on her heart to make sure it was beating, but could not divert enough attention from him to form a definite answer. 

Stalk still, frozen, she again lapsed into a blank state, could feel nothing. But this time it was because of an override, not a numbness. Couldn't speak, couldn't think, couldn't breathe. All she could do was stare at the figure before her. He stared back—no feeling either? No, he had been expecting this encounter. Still probably a surprise, though. How could he have prepared?

The second wave of infantry began leaking in. These troops less sudden, less shocking. She could actually register them in her consciousness. Surprise, relief, awe, love…fear? A diverse army, whose name she couldn't quite pronounce, but whose definition she knew. Feeling. Him. 

A few tears slipped over the rims of her eyes. He saw, stepped forward involuntarily, one step closer. She silently willed him to close the remaining gap. She couldn't herself, was too weak to stand. 

She shakily extended an open palm. An invitation. He understood, walked forward and accepted. Warmth she'd thought was gone forever embraced the extremity, woke it up, made it desperately aware of each line of his fingerprint pressing against a thousand distinct hairs on the back of her hand.  She could not have let go if her life had been in limbo. More tears fell, she squeezed the hand, clasping ever more tightly, and her heart skipped another thump when he returned the gesture. 

"Where'd you go?" she ventured. Softly, hesitating. Testing her returning voice and his reaction. 

His free hand roughly snaked around her shoulders, grasped her, could not let go. She would have quivered, but could not, the embrace was so tight. And she was too secure to need to shake.

More tears, him too. Then it was more than tears. Full blown weeping. The result of the wrenching crack that had emerged in the retaining wall that had been so well concealing all extreme emotion even from herself. Apparently, he'd been corking his feelings too—he cried equally, more. Both shook. Held on tighter to each other to ease the shaking. Holding on made more tears. Made it real.

Not a dream, though dream-like. Real. Had she died in those moments, she would not have been able to notice.

In his arms, the straggling paratroopers softly alighted in her conscience, the third wave settled down, invading her already full to capacity emotional bank. A new foreign emotion, that had been absent longer than the rest. Since months before he left. Genuine, tranquil joy.

Her teeth grasped for her lip. Found it and clamped down, controlling her visible feeling, caging her smile. His expression mirrored hers—as she roped in her elation, he did the same. 

She kept herself in check for as long as she could manage—solemn but for blinks when her smile tugged at its leash enough to leak through her clenched lips before being dragged back to its proper position. Her expression was that of a car that has lost a wheel but sprouted wings, and is bouncing along on three wheels trying desperately to lift of into the air and take full advantage of its good fortune, in the meantime still staggering.

Finally she could bear her own oppression no longer, and her smile broke through, despite her resistance. A radiant expression filled with delight, relief. One of those expressions of true beauty in every sense of the word.

Sensing the ease in her trembling caused by her self-release, he loosened his grasp on her, slid his interlocked fingers apart and from behind her back to her sides, holding her at arm's length. 

Bashfully, she displayed her smile. His reaction was all it could be: an increase in tears and shivers and an almost equally dazzling smile of his own to match.

"Absence makes the heart grow fonder" he impishly quipped. For it she would have hated him another day. _No_, she would think, _not fonder, just more evident_.

Today, instead, in response her grin grew—every word he uttered was divine. 

*******

Author's Note: I didn't want to post this at the beginning, cause seeing an author announce they're a virgin writer is a real turn-off, but yes, this is my first posted fanfic, and I would love reviews! I think I probably need a beta or something, or at least help, cause I'm new. Just tell me what you thought! Thanks!

Oh! Also, I have no clue if this is a standalone, or where it's going or what kind of plot it should have. Any ideas?


	2. Contemplation

Beneath the Heap Chapter 2

Disclaimer: Still not mine!

Summary: Three in the morning, after the reunion. Carby, definitely, now.

Rating: PG-13, I guess, just in keeping with the last chapter, but nothing really bad happens here.

*******

Silently, delicately, eyes fluttered open, though it made no difference—all was dark. Her newly reborn sense of time guessed three in the morning.

No sight, her other awakening senses were engaged, heightened. Improved ears astutely heard birds on the other side of the window pane wholeheartedly collaborating, composing a chirping symphony even at this hour. The avian calls provided a sense of security, a peace that night wasn't so frightening after all, that in fact it was as familiarly alive as day. Alive with multi-dimensional life: chirps syncopated with the occasional shout or the whirr of a car passing by on the street below.

Headlight reflections briefly graced the darkened room with blue shadow before suddenly disappearing, once more leaving the room cloaked in the black night.

Touch was heightened too, although not as much due to lack of sight as to the recently unfamiliar proximity to another living being.

Her leg, tangled between his, was visible, peering into the night in place of knocked-aside blankets. She felt a slight pulsating through the physical connection—his veins? Hers? Knew that if she were to adjust her leg it would take a moment to release from the grip of his damp skin, so instead remained motionless, not wanting to tear any fragile, reforming bonds. 

Couldn't move legs, so her head turned, to benefit from her slowly adjusting sight. Saw him, swallowed to grasp the emotion of the vision—he lay on one side, facing her, arms and legs curled to her figure as she lay flat on her back. Concave to her convex. 

She reached one arm up, lightly brushed fingertips against fingertips, tenderly caressed his loosely posed hand extending from the arm placed as a support behind her neck. Not to make him aware of her presence, more to remind herself of his.

She inhaled—a fourth sense was put into use—as she devoured the recognizable blend of odors. Harsh sweat mingled with something smoother to create a soothing aroma, unmistakably him. She bent her head faintly and touched her lips to his sleeping bicep, fifth sense. Smelling chocolate and tasting it, two different things, but entwined—scent just a hint of the bliss of taste. 

Five ways confirmed, yes, he was actually there, in her bed, undoubtedly more than she'd ever wished in those weeks of desolation. Yet as novelty wore off, relapsing into an old habit of familiarity, she decided it was time to think.

Pressed against him, head resting gently on his shoulder, such contemplation was impossible. Like lying on her back, floating in quietly cascading water—so placid her mind would not allow her to disrupt her serenity. So calm, so peaceful…

Suddenly sat up, to dissipate the distraction. Succeeded and regained a clear mind, ready for rational thought. Thought of what? Didn't know what to think. Sidestepping the obvious. Unsure, she tucked a rebel lock of hair behind one ear.

Of course, she should be pondering the new arrival in her bed, all the mystery surrounding his return. But how could she? Her own thoughts would not reveal truths she was not already aware of., instead would only increase emotion: confusion, anger, sorrow—not emotions she would intentionally welcome. She'd rather study the room—the stuccoed ceiling, the faintly chipping paint on the walls, his toes, protruding from beneath the comforter, perfectly rounded, soft. Where had they been treading lately? Why had they gone? What had—

"Abby." So slight it may have been the wind, or the birds, or—swiftly she rotated her torso, creaking a few degrees to gaze into his half-ajar dark eyes. Awake.

Thought, solo at least, was done for the night. Back to mental hibernation. 

"Abby," again, of course; she hadn't responded to the original call, only stared.

"Yeah," tried to match his subdued tone, instead squeaked.

"What'cha thinking about?" prying, she didn't like it. He'd been gone—violently absent. He had no right to traipse back in here and read her thoughts.

"Nothing." Harsher than she'd intended. Actually, no. She'd wanted to put him in his rightful place, a newborn who had to rebuild his collapsed platform, not a grown adult who could simply re-ascend the stairs. 

He didn't understand the tone, smiled slightly, unbelieving. Prying deeper.

"I'm not sure yet," she responded, truthfully, she supposed.

He reached an arm towards her, stroked her upper back a few times.

"It's ok." No, jerk, he had no right to be so accommodating. She took a step back, tried to cover all possibilities before relying on hasty conclusions. To avoid her initial reaction. That was the door that had led them here in the first place. Time to choose a different one.

"What's ok?"

"Hating me." Or maybe this path was the winner. She'd been right this time, maybe in light of recent traumas her intuition had gained new accuracy. Someone had deemed it necessary to remove her shroud of stupidity after witnessing the consequences of last time she'd worn it. 

Self-congratulatory thoughts depleted, she registered the cool knowingness of his words fully. Froze imperceptibly, then one racking shiver relayed down her spine.

_I don't_, she knew she was meant to say. Couldn't—was not sure whether it would be a lie.

"Hmm." All she could muster in acknowledgement. Sat quiescently unblinking for one minute, two, three—hardly thinking, although that was what he'd assume. Just breathing—had no idea what else to do.

Four. Five. Six.

He could not bear her infuriating indifference, was sick of being so patient to let her come to her own conclusions. Why should he? It hadn't worked before.

"Abby!" Her shoulders seized. The loudest sound that had been uttered in hours.  Momentarily stunned, as the roughness of the waves ricocheted across the room, he began again, less demanding, more pleading.

"Please, I don't care what you say, just tell me anything. I don't mind if you scream that you want me dead, just give me some clue!"

"I don't want you dead." Solemn, begrudgingly, a small child admitting to her father one small wrongdoing of her criminal escapade.

He waited, didn't want to plug his pinhole window into her psyche.

Her pause was too pregnant for him. He prompted her. 

"What _do_ you want then?" She sighed, almost inaudibly. Didn't elaborate. He understood though—she didn't know.

Recognizing his prodding attempts as futile, he settled back down into the embrace of the pillows, returned to a slumbering mentality. Perhaps in a few hours the window would expand and a few more drips of comprehension would leak out. Maybe by then she'd have analyzed herself a little more, enough to relate something useful, to decipher a few words of her emotional code.

Right now, he knew she'd been telling the truth when she'd said she didn't know what to think about. She was as confused as he was, more maybe. Probably.

Content with his evaluation, he shifted his focus—stared at her—hair iridescent in the limited light, smooth skin of her back barely rippling in time to her pulse, fingers picking delicately at the seam in the sheet draped across her lap as she concentrated intently on something he could hardly guess at. God he hoped she'd forgive him.

At peace once more, his eyelids slid gradually until one set of lashes met the other, reuniting at last to form a gateway for much needed sleep. 

"John," she quivered, sliding back into a flat position beside him, hoping he'd re-embrace her.

"Hmm?" too much on the verge of sub-consciousness to be hopeful that this was the opportunity he'd been eagerly awaiting.

"I felt like I was dead." 

Though bold, it didn't evoke anything in him but the primal urge to comfort. He extended his arms, creating a cradle for her to fall back in. In a moment, her situated against him, he closed them, tight around her, rocking invisibly, holding her pressed closely to his body to absorb his security, soothing in a way that could only be described as maternal.

"Shh," he cooed. "I know."

*******

Author's Note: Thanks so much for the reviews! They were really…inspiring, and I'm glad you liked it! I think there will be one more chapter after this, I don't want it to turn into an epic or anything! 

Also, some credit: I got the word "traipse" from a fanfic (can't remember which, so that's not much help :d ) And I got "quiescently" off my popsicle which was "quiescently frozen" And the idea for this came loosely from Sunni (Lanie), so thanks for that!


	3. Emergence

Beneath the Heap Chapter 3

Disclaimer: I am stealing another's creative genius.

Summary: Eight days later, cold again. 

Rating: PG-13 for depressing angst

*******

Eight days later, cold again. But now the forlorn emptiness was no mystery, no shock, no exterior heart-wrenching force for which she had no reins.

"John," she'd said in a tone of unmistakable cool. Unbearable frost. One heavy word of stony cruel detachment, revealing all she felt, withholding only love.

He'd understood perfectly, one skill at which he was unnervingly undefeated. A paper grocery bag containing a shirt, a toothbrush, a razor, rumpled slightly as it was lifted from the counter and carried through the gaping doorway, pinned between his torso and left arm. The routine procedure of a child's lunch on its way to school did not convey the abnormality it was due. 

At the time she'd sighed, and after a moment of extraordinary resistance, salty streams rolled their way down her cheeks, dripping off her jawbone with no thumb-dams to catch them. 

Now she was done with such ordinary reactions. She was used to his exits, or should have been. Her final decision had been carried through. He'd answered all her inquiries truthfully, earnestly, eyes glistening with regret, hand reaching to grasp her, needing a handle on the edge of his cliff. She'd pushed him away repeatedly, hesitantly, convincing herself to ignore the turmoil the action induced in her stomach. He'd divulged the details of his secret willingly, but sadly. Where he'd gone (didn't remember, thought Connecticut, maybe), who he'd met (no one, save for a few amateur advice columnists in a bar), why (he didn't know, never would. Thought maybe out of fear or rage or devastation: something extreme, though her guess was as good as his). He'd known even while he spoke that she would not accept his return, that she could not overlook such a flaw.

Yet still he'd persisted, trying to convey how intense his regret was, coursing through the deepest crevasses of his core so much that he sincerely believed the force would shatter him. He'd pleaded for forgiveness, begged for her affection, promised his devotion, declared his love. He'd succeeded in stirring the slop of emotion she already had churning. But the striking reaction she had to his words only served to convince her of a truth she knew was etched into her eventual conclusion, though she knew not why: he had to leave. Ultimately she knew she could not grant his pleas.

And now, when a fleck of liquid arose in her eye, a finger shot to the crevice and vigorously rubbed it dry.

The first few nights he'd called, unwilling to give up his quest. But he'd come to understand that his persuasion was not what she needed to overrule her decision. The third night, his final attempt had been simply a muttered "I love you" as he brushed past her on his way out of the hospital, departing after a grueling ten hour shift. She knew the begrudging words had been a grey flag signifying his dismissal, a way to tell her he was giving up. She'd needed to scream after him, not a simple shout, but a trilling, racking scream expressing her dismay. Could not scream for a ball of tears clogging her throat, promising to spill out if she so much as quivered her chin. Could not let him see her cry. Instead, she'd shaken, violent seizures, forcing her against the wall, keeping her stationary in the muggy summer night air for minutes, pressed so rigidly against the surface, a pattern of rough brick appeared on one cheek. 

His tactics were futile, he accepted. He did not know, though, what was necessary to sway her instead.

Nor did she, though she spent most waking moments considering her decision and wondering why she had done what she had. Mostly her analytical search was fruitless, causing only bouts of overwhelming distress, making her waver, frozen, for a minute, until she regained dominance over her emotions, wiped away evidence of grief, until ordinary flesh tones highlighted her face once again. In the hallway, the drug lockup, the bathroom, restocking suture kits. She did not know how to relieve the anguish, only that it must go away.

She did all she could to stay away from him, kept her head firmly facing towards the Earth's crust when she felt his presence prickling her neck. Direct acknowledgement was guaranteed to bring on the attacks readily, and in public, at least, it was more than she could bear to show.

Days grew to a week again, and she feared a relapse into her dead existence, but could do nothing to prevent such a thing. She slept whenever she was not at work (though at least, this time, unlike last, she was actually venturing out daily for shifts), for in sleep her torment seemed to subside. In bed though, before she could slip away, she could feel the heavy sadness pressing her organs to their lower boundaries, constricting her heart's beating, her lungs' breathing, her stomach's digestive churns. Each time, before she slipped into the protective black, she had an engulfing urge to cry out.

One night she indulged the craving and let out a wailing shout that sent blood racing through her veins. She'd jerked upright, pounded the bed frame. Pummeled furniture, decorations, magazines, stormed through the apartment, creating behind her a trail of clutter. Towards the kitchen, by far the most delicate room which would absolutely be the most satisfying to destroy. Plates crashed out of cupboards, smashed on the floor amongst shards of other dishes. It took a sudden sear of hot agony across a thigh to shock her out of her crazed turn as a wrecking ball. Morbidly ashamed, she surveyed the alcove, taking inventory of that which had been damaged. At least eleven separate pieces of dishware. She'd been on track to wreck her entire abode. Glanced down at the pain source to thank it for breaking the trance, and gasped at what she saw. A dozen rivulets of fire engine red, in addition to the larger torrent of the offending original laceration, trickled down her legs. Why hadn't the pain registered? A drop fell from an elbow, and a further check of her body revealed many more rips torn into her skin.

Someone well rehearsed in emergencies, she panicked. Could not remove her feet from where she stood for a moment, then began racing to the living room, the bedroom, the den, back to the kitchen, more pangs shooting up her ankles as she trod on the splinters littering the floor, until she remembered the bathroom was her intended destination. Sat down on the cold white tiles when she got there, the ceramic erupted in crimson polka dots. 

Could not think what to do, but an overriding presence in the back of her mind told her she needed to relax. Of course. Why was she panicking to begin with? Inhaled and exhaled to her full capacity, cogs in rapid pursuit of some clue as to the next step. Shivering with anxiety, she could not remember. Thought, though,  that perhaps she needed help if she was unable to tranquilize her apprehension. 

Although she could not remember first aid procedures that had been carved into her reality for years, she found the competence to doubt the outcome of a call for assistance. She was not weak. Not vulnerable. Not in pain. This was not out of rage. Not of despair or sorrow or regret. She was not hurt.

Instinctively reached a hand to discourage frustrated tears, as was her new habit, and found something warm on her palm. The polka dots had become an ocean. In a heart-stopping instant of alarm, it occurred to her that she might die.

Despite pride, she had to have help. Desperately. She stood gingerly and wobbled to the bedroom phone, leaving behind a faint path of brownish footprints. Dialed the number whose operator was the surest to aid of any she knew.

"Hello?" Groggy, it was late.

She hesitated. Then persevered in the strongest tone she could muster. "John, I need help." Still wavered a little. Hoped he would grasp the urgency.

"I'm coming," steady, unfazed by their first communication in days. Hung up the phone. Yes, he'd understood.

She made her way back to the cool floor of the other room, and collapsed against the wall. The four words had been the most blatant admittance of fault she'd ever uttered. Shuddered at such dismal records. Though reluctant, the words had been necessary.

He found her in the bathroom, defenseless as he'd ever seen, though this wasn't shocking, he'd been expecting urgency since the phone call, completely unlike her. Gently, he helped her to the bathtub and lifted the bloody nightshirt (his, though he did not remark) over her head. He ran a stream of cool water over her body to assess the injuries, ignoring the goose bumps. Reached under the sink to retrieve paper towels, and began mopping her dry and bandaging, tenderly, with a doctor's ease, one cut at a time. 

By the time the last sterile pad was in place, she'd calmed enough to realize her life had never been in peril. Any shame at her desperation, though, was dissolved as he lifted her dry body out of the basin and carried her to the dent in the bed where she'd been lying before  the mania. Tucking her in. a clean shirt hanging silk-like from her shoulders, he sat beside her, stroking her hair with a rough thumb, as she fell quickly into the subconscious, exhausted.

Hours later, she arose to a growling stomach. Exiting the bedroom, she found a cleaned kitchen, all traces of a rage had been swept away, blood stains eliminated, furniture upright. And a man, presumably drained of energy, oblivious to her re-entry, beneath a blanket on the sofa. She had to smile a little at his serenity, until she recalled the tension in which they'd been existing for the last days, and powerful doubt rose in her throat.

"No," she told herself now, exercising newly recovered emotional control. "Later."

As she sat at the table in the afternoon sun, chewing a hunk of bread and meat and alphalfa sprouts, staring at the still form in her living room, small twitches revealed an auburn eye, then another. He set his features pleasantly. "Hi."

"Good morning," she joked.

An obliging smile, then, "how are you today?" serious concern automatically superseding babble.

She chanced a peak down, at a bandaged hand splayed on the brown kitchen table, then cocked her head back up at him, a genuinely encouraging upturn in her features. "I think I'm okay." 

He nodded. "Good." His head turned to the right, apparently gazing out the window. From the side she saw his muscles tighten—a frown, though he would not have knowingly showed her.  He was clearly struggling; to keep up the pleasant façade, to refrain from questions he very much wanted answers to. The taut face relaxed slightly, his neck creases slid back down to where they normally lay. He'd come to his decision: he would not ask. 

She'd known he'd be too considerate to inquire, but still needed him to know. "I uh, freaked out I guess." His head turned back to face her as she spoke, last traces of his disconcerted expression softening as she continued. "You know, went insane. Channeled my mother. One minute I was falling asleep and the next I was smashing around the apartment wrecking things." 

She gestured, he smiled. "Yeah."

Gnawed on her lower lip a bit, unsure. Tried describing a state she could not quite recall. "And, I think, I scared myself more than anything. I panicked. I was helpless… and I told myself I was fatally wounded." Eyes rotated, grinned at the absurd notion. "And I called you." Mumbled, because she knew as much as he did how significant an action it had been. Dying, and her first instinct had been him.

Quiet for a moment, they seemed to concur on some unspoken point, both heads bobbing in affirmation. He ventured needlessly, only to create sound waves, "yeah, you seemed pretty upset."

Now she was the one to redirect her attention. Picked at the chipping paint of the plate where her half-eaten sandwich lay. "Mm hmm. I—" shifted slightly, jerkily, gazing at him with peripheral vision. "Thank you."

  Awkwardness remained floating between the sofa and the kitchen, an impenetrable cloud one would expect between two strangers, a rapper dude and the president, not between proclaimed best friends, once-official lovers. Unbearable. Both perused the apartment, never settling on a diversion until finally they shut their eyes, unable to allow themselves to see any longer for fear of seeing the other. 

A long while later, breaking the ambience of shallow breaths, sighs, taps, shifting, "Abby." Slowly opening eyes caught a glimpse of another freshly ajar pair. Could not look away.

Fingers picked at each other, toes balled and flattened. Finally there was no other option. "Huh?"

"Should I leave?" heartbreakingly uncertain. Though reasonably so. She couldn't help smiling, warmly, at the pitiable demeanor. Smile faded to guilt.

"No." More callous than she meant, but she could not divulge excessive feeling. Could add a little though. "Please don't."

The words he'd been hoping for induced an unexpected reaction: fury. Tried to hold it in, she did not deserve the projection. Face contorted, flushed with blood. 

"Then what happens?" a brisk bark. Any less repression and the shout would startle her. As it was, she rose faintly from her seat, locked into a classical straight posture.

"I…I don't know." So much more she wanted to tell him, but the surprise had caught her unprepared. The starting gun of a race when she had not yet mounted the winning race horse.

"Well neither do I." Bitter. Confused. Sad? Tried to keep his eyes from hers, followed suit and hoarded his emotions.

And suddenly she vaulted, frantic hope her mounting box. "We're going to try." Landed squarely on the steed, loped to the front of the herd. 

He chanced a glance, a faint smile,  "yeah?"

"Well it'll be a whole lot easier than not trying." Smiling too now, anticipation flickering in her throat. Heard his knees crackle as he extended his legs and arose. Couldn't breathe or fidget or blink as he edged toward her, nervously giraffe-ish.

"Okay," a watery mumble, he had no other voice at the moment on account of his tear-teeming larynx. Rougher than he'd intended, his hand thrust into the lingering space between them. Hesitated at the ferocity, then, wobbling, a soldier, uncertain, offering his most prized olive branch, extended the hand to hers, still resting on the table. "I think we can do that." 

Neither spoke, neither could, just stared at his hand lifting hers delicately, stroking the bandage, apparently detached from his will. She, too by no conscious attempt, clenched his offering, ignoring the pain. Relief set both too oblivious to register the nerve tinges contact generally caused, and they remained still, herons poised for a catch, for an immeasurable time. 

At last, a squeezing struggle in her lungs spoiled the trance, and she drew a long stream of air, open-mouthed. His air puffed toward her upturned face, a warm ribbon of him, and she lowered her head so heat showered her hair part. No longer impeded by an oxygen defecit, one drip fell onto the wood of the table. Soaked in, dye on cloth, discoloring a small circle of the surface. Another drop. Another. One on her ear, and she swiveled to make eye contact, uninhibited for the first time in days. 

She raised her free arm, cradled a sodden cheek in her palm, and lowered the extremity, never dropping the connection, as he crouched to her eyelevel. Would have chewed her nails had her hands not been occupied, such was the intensity of her adoration. Chewed a lip instead, shivered. Contracted, overwrought, as arms darted soothingly to loop her waist. Slid her hand from his cheek, across hair she'd been only dreaming of, and pulled his head to her belly, pressed it in as far as her ribcage would allow. It was of no concern he saw her tears now, he was a part of her, a piece due a clear view of its other half, a portion of an freshly unblurred whole.

Her stomach vibrated to his trembles, absorbed the residue from his silently leaking face. She sobbed, caressed his hair, his features, his neck, solemnly swearing never to let go.

"Shh, John, I'm here."

*******

Author's Note: Well, this is my final chapter of this unintentionally heavy story. I swear, I planned fuzz! It's unnerving how easily the angst comes. The next one will be a fluffy fic, mark my words! Anyway, this was definitely not my favorite chapter, but what did you think? Please review! And thanks for reading it all.


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